


Fragile Heart

by ObsidianMichi



Series: Abelas and Lavellan at Skyhold [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ABELLAN, Abelavellan, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3503717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianMichi/pseuds/ObsidianMichi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Eirwen Lavellan is injured in battle with a Pride Demon, Abelas is forced into a conversation with Varric Tethras about his feelings. He doesn't take it well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragile Heart

The Pride Demon’s fist swung up, catching Eirwen Lavellan’s chest. She lifted off the ground in a blurring blue crackle, flung high over white snow. Electricity sparked across the ice, shimmering between flashes of black and green. For a brief moment, she hung like a bird in flight. Small body framed by a gray-blue sky.

A yell, rough and raw, angry, _anguished_ , rose above the Pride Demon’s triumphant laughter.

Varric inhaled sharply. Cold air rushing to fill his lungs, filled with the stench of smoking flesh. Finger on the trigger. _No,_ the word spilled through his mind, _no, no, no, no_ , over and over, _nononononononono._

Back arched as blue-purple fragments burst around her body. Then, she came crashing down. Her body slammed into a snow drift with a horrid crunch, rolled out onto hard, blue-white ice, stopped, and lay still.

“Boss!” Bull’s voice. Not the first yell. This worried, but controlled. The other one…

A blur of bronze shot past.

The ancient elven warrior caught the demon in a powerful upswing from his hammer. The creature rocked, stumbled. With a second swing, Abelas knocked it back. Then, back again.

“Hang on, Bright Eyes!” Varric yelled. Eyes narrowing, he squeezed Bianca’s trigger. A flurry of bolts flew, burying themselves into rigid purple scales. The Pride Demon roared. “We’ll get you through this!”

Bull’s blade drove through the Demon’s chest and sheared up, cleaving through creature. Two smoldering halves crumbled onto the ice. Black ash blew across blanketed white, sucked up by the whirling vortex.

The last demon gone.

Varric ran forward, yanking a flask from his belt. The closer he got, the thicker the smell of roasted flesh grew. _Crisped like a pig on the spit at the Hanged Man._ It permeated the air. Mouth watered, pangs wriggling in his stomach. _Ugh._ It roiled, wrenched, and only his years of experience kept his lunch where it belonged.

A dark form knelt in the snow. Abelas. Already at the Inquisitor’s side. His hammer forgotten in the snow behind him. One hand behind her head as the other held a potion to her lips. A wide hood obscured his face, exposing only a long nose and full lips thinned into a tight line. He tilted it, carefully, in a practiced motion.

 _Gentle hands,_ Varric thought. _Good sign, I guess._ Maybe the old man nursed a lot of battlefield injuries in his day. Probably did. _Just another reminder that we know almost nothing about him._ Varric tried to consider how that thought could be comforting, but watching Abelas kneel over the Inquisitor was just another reminder of why he couldn’t quite put his foot out the Inquisition’s front door. _Not yet._

Of the two, Eirwen was easily the worse off. Her usually pale skin currently matched the surrounding snow. A thick, stubborn bruise puffing around her left eye and cheek. A thick cut across her forehead leaked, a thin red line slipping down her temple. Blackened marks seared the front of her robes, and he saw a visible burn spread across her neck to the tip of her right ear.

Her head turned, blue eyes focused past him. One hand lifted off the snow, stretching out toward the Rift. Green energy rippled off her glove. Crackling on the ice, snapping, it ripped at the air.

A chill raced up Varric’s spine and he knelt. One hand rested on her forehead, pushing back orange hair. “It’s all right, kid,” he murmured. His voice caught a little in his throat, words came out rough. “We’ll get it after you rest up.”

“N-no,” her soft voice ground out. Blood bubbled on the corner of her mouth. Nose wrinkling, upper lip curled, twitched with an inhale. “Now.”

“Bright Eyes,” he began.

“Abelas.” The Inquisitor’s eyes swung to the elf.

“If it is your wish, Lethallan,” Abelas replied. His level voice remained cool. “I will oblige.”

 _Nothing like the scream when she fell._ It had been him, hadn’t it? The difference between his composure now and lack of it then was startling. _Now, he’s indulging her worst instincts._ The kid could kill herself and their newest addition looked ready to let her.

“Corypheus is gone, Boss,” Bull said. “No more demonic invasion. We’ve got time.”

Cradling her with one arm, Abelas helped her to her feet.

Eirwen leaned against him. Huge blue saucers stared out from a baby face, firm frown wrinkling her brow. Lips tight, jaw clenched, she determinedly lifted an arm. “We do,” she said, a raw voice squeezed from a battered throat. “People here…” Her arm spasmed, trembled. Almost fell. “Don’t.”

Catching her wrist with his free hand, Abelas helped raise it. His bronze fingers tight around her forearm, his other arm steadily wrapped around her waist.

“Boss…” Iron Bull tried again, trailing off.

“No,” Eirwen said. Her chin lifted. “Has to be… now.”

Energy crackled off her palm, a blazing green streak struck the Rift. A heated blast rocked Varric back. Screams ripped through the air. Howling spirits dragged into the vortex. The tear twisted, shuddered, and snapped closed.

Eirwen’s head rocked back. Eyes squeezing shut, she let out a soft gasp and slumped. Head hanging limp over the gentle hand pressed against her waist.

One arm swept beneath her legs, and then she was firmly secured in Abelas’ arms. Resting her head against his chest, the ancient elf turned and carried the Inquisitor back toward Sahrnia.

 _Like he doesn’t even care,_ Varric thought. His grip tightened on Bianca, jaw clenching. _Bright Eyes has been through enough._ These tendencies of hers had only grown worse since Solas’ untimely and strange departure. _Someone ought to explain things to him._ Undoubtedly that would be him. _Right,_ Varric thought, _because testing the limits of an elf a few thousand years older than myself is precisely within my wheelhouse._

 

***

 

Abelas stood in the dark. The candles dimmed, casting only a soft glow across the desk in the far corner of the room. Arms crossed across his chest, his eyes never moved from where Eirwen Lavellan lay prone. Buried beneath oversized quilts on a too large bed, she remained still. In the corner, a brazier burned. The windows shuttered. For all the cold in the room beyond, this one was hot and muggy as a summer’s day within the hallways of the Virabellasan.

This bed belonged to the town’s mayor. Given over the moment, he stepped within the village. The people of Sahrnia would not allow their Herald to be carted an extra few feet to the Inquisition’s encampment. She was to recover here, where proper rest and food could be provided. Where she could be watched by the town healer, where the camp medic and one Inquisition mage might all spend their hours arguing over which treatment would best aid her recovery. Outside the central building, the villagers kept a vigil. Warm orange glowed beyond the window sill, reflected in diadems glittering on drifting mounds of snow. He listened to the unending prayers spoken to the ruined statue of Andraste in the center of town, their chants sung at all hours.

Throughout it all, the Inquisitor remained unmoved. Two days passed without change. Her cheeks chalky and yellowed, the faded color of Skyhold milk left too long in the sun. Those inquisitive eyes shut, lashes fluttering slightly with each soft inhale. He watched the blankets rise and fall with those breaths, his own half hitched in his throat. His own caught when her breathing stifled, when the pattern changed.

He stayed and waited. Standing over her small body as his fingers itched on bronze plates. Kept them close, more from fear of where they might wander if left uncontained than his own comfort.

Sure healers’ hands had bathed her, dressed her wounds, and applied stronger poultices to her more grievous injuries. She would be well, they said. Time was all she needed. He could rest.

Rest, Abela replied, he did not require. The shemlen believed him. They knew not what was true and when he lied. How could they, for all his similarities, they recognized him as alien.

When one Chantry sister brought him food, he thanked her. Reminded her that nourishment was unnecessary. Better she save it for those who had need. A small, curved smile suggested the woman recognized his lie. She left the plate on a table somewhere to the left.

He had not touched it.

Abelas’ eyes drifted to the Inquisitor’s thin mouth. The sister’s expression was not unfamiliar. Over the months since he’d joined their Herald and the Inquisition, he’s grown accustomed to seeing it on Eirwen Lavellan’s lips. A tilted head, careful eyes measuring him for his limits, and that frank, knowing smirk when she caught him in the act.

_I did not think to question hers._

Eirwen Lavellan carried a resolute strength within her. When her body failed, she drove herself forward with sheer iron will. The state of the world required mages to cultivate it, to hone their minds with rigid self-control. The Chantry preached temptation faced and depravity inflicted by those who fell. The Dalish spoke their own principles, yet reflected an outlook similarly harsh.

 _A leader’s role is to sacrifice,_ Eirwen’s words rang from the corners of his mind. _I cannot ask them to make theirs if I refuse to do the same._ His mouth twitched, eyes falling back to the young woman on the bed. A Herald with no god. One who proved day in and out as they wandered the countryside, she needed none. She came heralding a vision all her own, to which the people could aspire. _Perhaps this is how Fen’harel preferred it._ Would that he understood what the Dread Wolf wanted when he joined this cause.

Fist clenching against his breastplate, he released a slow exhale.

 _I have spent enough time alone with my thoughts._ He was no god, merely a shade seeking that which eluded him. _A reason to continue on,_ he thought. He failed to protect Mythal. Failed in his mission to safe keep the Vir’Abelasan from those who would ransack its treasures. Failed, perhaps, even to prepare those who came in the after. Failed to prepare for those who cast Mythal down. They waited beyond the Veil, trapped but not yet gone.

Now, his eyes slid over a pale, pert nose and full lips, he failed yet again to protect that which mattered most. One hand stretched out, candlelight glinting off bronze gauntlets, fingers stopping short of orange bangs. Perhaps, this was all that remained. This legacy of failure.

With a sigh, Abelas withdrew his hand.

“So,” a warm voice rumbled behind him, “still here, huh?”

He did not move. Securing his hand back beneath his elbow, he closed his eyes. _The durgen’len,_ Abelas reminded himself. _Tethras, Varric._ The one with the strange attraction to his crossbow. _The one da’assan desperately wishes to impress._

“It’s only been two days,” the durgen’len continued. “Kid’s slept off worse.”

Abelas stiffened. “In time, yes,” he replied.

“So?” Varric Tethras added. “It’s only been two days. Give her some, Sorrows.”

The dwarf had a penchant for nicknames. _It remains unamusing._ “I am not attempting to hurry her recovery,” Abelas said.

“No? You’re what?” Heavy footsteps thudded on wooden beams. “Waiting it out to see if she’ll pull through?”

“No.” The word left him. Hung heavy in the air.

Once, he had watched his goddess cast down upon the crystal steps by a traitor’s blade. Once, he had stood in room so very much like this one and watched the one to which he devoted his life slip away. Water in his palm, draining through the cracks, until all he knew was gone. If it became necessary, he would hold such a vigil again. Mourn the passing of another righteous soul, another striving to be more than this narrow, broken world allowed. His gaze returned to the Inquisitor’s fluttering lashes. A small smile touched the corners of his lips. For now, he knew, hope sustained him.

“As you said,” Abelas continued, “she will recover.”

A gruff hand awkwardly clapped his shoulder. “Yeah,” Varric said.

Another moment of silence passed. Another few spent listening to Eirwen Lavellan’s gentle inhale, her soft exhale. Felt his warm inward revel at its steadiness. _How easily breathing washes away the sorrow._ He would find her again on the practice courts or face her endless questions from behind a heavy tome, hear the soft giggles brought when _da’assan_ attempted to pigeonhole him with her sharp arrows. Stand upon the battlements of cold stone built upon Tarasy’lan Te’las and allow his eyes to follow the endless ridges of snow covered peaks in silence as her gloved fingers rested against his hand.

Those moments would come again and relief filled him to know it was so.

“I don’t get you, Sorrows,” the durgen’len said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were in love with her.”

“I am not,” Abelas said. “Not as one such as you perceives it.”

“I like to think I know what love looks like,” the dwarf replied mildly. Another knock to Abelas’ shoulder followed, then leather crinkled as Varric Tethras crossed his arms. “I’ve certainly seen it enough times.”

“This conversation is unnecessary, Child of the Stone.”

“No?” he asked. “When was the last time you slept?”

Abelas frowned. “I do not require counsel.”

“I counsel everybody,” Varric said. “Don’t take it personally.”

With a shrug, Abelas studied let his gaze rise to the pillows and the gray blankets tugged under the Inquisitor’s chin. With the room’s heat, she was certainly warm enough. _Yet, her color has not returned._ If this persisted, the time might come to locate healers more capable of securing a road to recovery.

“And, you clearly need it before whatever this,” a gloved hand waved toward the bed, “is rides you right off a cliff.”

Abelas sighed.

“Both of you,” Varric Tethras said. “Bright Eyes is about as bad.”

“Clearly,” Abelas replied. “Say it then, if I cannot dissuade you.”

“You’re not her servant, Sorrows,” the dwarf said. “You don’t have to do what she says.”

His eyes narrowed. “You refer to my assistance at the rift?”

“You’re definitely devoted,” Varric Tethras said. “I have a friend like you—”

“You presume too much, _durgen’len,_ ” Abelas replied. His sharp voice cut through the air. “I may have over stepped my bounds then, but you are well past yours.” Jaw clenching, he stared at the body on the bed. “Either way, it is for her to decide when she wakes.”

“See? That’s what I’m talking about,” the dwarf said. “If you haven’t noticed, Sorrows, our Inquisitor’s pretty terrible at judging when she’s over the limit. She’d kill herself if we let her.” His tone darkened. “These bad habits have only gotten worse since Chuckles left.”

“Is this why you remain?” Abelas asked. “The reason why all your stories about past acquaintances stay stories, why all your travel plans become mysteriously delayed,” his eyes moved from the bed to the dwarf, then back, “you cannot leave yet.”

“Pretty good one, I think.”

“Perhaps,” Abelas replied. “Or, perhaps, it is you and not I who faces difficulty relinquishing the past.”

“Says the elf that spent five thousand years guarding a puddle.”

“So, you find the Vir’Abelasan’s importance beyond you,” Abelas said. “It is of no surprise.” He released an inward sigh. “You shemlen have ever been short sighted.”

“And you never made a good case for why you’re here. You jump from one form of bondage straight into another and you never stop to ask why,” Varric Tethras said. “Maybe you’re getting a little lonely without your chains.”

A laugh escaped him, a bitter bark. “Were that so,” he said. “I might have merely passed into uthenera. Instead,” he watched as the Inquisitor shifted in her blankets, mouth softening, “I embraced a different quality, one missing from my previous existence.”

“What?”

“Hope,” he said.

“Because the Inquisitor embraced the past?”

“Because she _rejected_ it,” Abelas replied. “We have stood apart from our fallen brothers and sisters for too long, durgen’len. Here, I rectify my error.”

“So you represent yesterday and she’s what? Tomorrow?”

“She is,” Abelas paused, his eyes slid over soft orange hair and a gentle forehead, “a future worth striving for.”

“That’s…” the dwarf trailed off, “actually fairly romantic. Makes for a good story. The ancient survivor of Arlathan and the Dalish girl whose condemnation convinced him to live again. Gotta pitch that to my editor.”

Abelas did not move. _Pity then,_ he thought, _that she loves another._ And he had no desire to insert himself into an already messy love affair. _Undeserving a wretch as Fen’harel is._ There was little needt o make it a trinity. Abelas valued the Inquisitor too much to stand in that center, unless she wished his aid defending her. Valued their tentative, if occasionally confusing, steps toward friendship. His devotion grew from an initially grudging respect. A source, he suspected, not dissimilar from the other members of the Inquisition’s Inner Circle. _Perhaps, it is merely my late arrival which makes me suspect._ In this, if _only_ this, Abelas found he could not blame the dwarf.

He sighed. “I am not blind to the truth.”

“No, of course not,” Varric Tethras laughed. “You’re just impressively stubborn.”

“Is that all you wished to say?” Abelas demanded. “Or do you simply take joy in vexing me?”

“No,” the dwarf said. “Do yourself a favor, elf, and kiss the girl. Take it from someone who knows, neither of you has got the time to play footsie.”

He sighed heavily. “I will not be another feature within your serials.”

“Hey! I’m writing this story with or without your participation, Sorrows,” Varric Tethras replied. “This is free advice. I’m just saying what you’re already thinking, even if you don’t realize it yet.”

“Already I see the similarities between you and da’assan,” he ground out. “Both incapable of keeping your noses outside the business of others.”

“Sera pushing you too, huh?”

His gaze jumped sideways, mouth tightening into a grim line.

“Chuckles isn’t coming back, Sorrows,” the dwarf continued. “And you’ve been standing here for the past two days, terrorizing the healers, refusing to eat or sleep. Might as well admit it. Take the next step.”

“If you stop talking, dwarf, I shall consider it.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Varric Tethras said. Then, without another word, he turned and exited the room.

Abelas closed his eyes, another sigh passing through his lips.

“They really know how to push, don’t they?”

His eyes snapped open.

Eirwen Lavellan gazed at him with wide blue eyes. Her drawn face tight, pale skin shining in the firelight as a tiny, tired smile tucked the corners of her lips.

“Lethallan,” he murmured. He crossed to the bed. Resting one hand on the headboard, he leaned over. “Are you well?” Abelas asked. “Shall I fetch the healer?”

“Creators,” Eirwen chuckled. “Such a fuss.” Then, she winced. Eyes squeezed shut. “Oh.”  
She bit her lip. “Still hurts to laugh.”

His searched her flushed cheeks, her taut skin. The cheesy coloration and waxy surface, both signs she had yet to fully recover. _Someone must be told._ Continued care would be necessary before she climbed out of bed. He turned to go. “I will retrieve them.”

Cold fingers closed around his wrist. “I’m fine, Abelas.”

“You are not,” his firm voice did not surprise him, the sudden and fierce undercurrent of anger did. “You very nearly died. You may yet.”

A soft sigh. “Abelas…”

He sank to the bed, elbows resting on his knees, and closed his eyes. Now, he allowed the image to play. The Pride Demon’s fist catching her chest in a blaze of electrical energy, her flight through the air, her crash into the snow. Stench of charred skin filling his nose, Abelas exhaled. Relief shuddered through him, his head hung. “No, Lethallan.”

Her hand slid up his forearm, tightening on his bicep. He felt her through the armor, felt his own rise to cover hers. Cold metal on cold skin. “Ir abelas,” she whispered. Her hoarse voice scraped in his ears.

“No,” he repeated. “Apologies are unnecessary.”

Another sigh lingered in his ears as Eirwen sank back into the pillows. “I thought you might scold me,” she said.

“Scold you?” He glanced over his shoulder, felt her fingers move beneath his gauntlet.

“You know like ‘You take too many chances, Eirwen.’ And ‘what would happen if we lost you?’” She paused. “I suppose though, with Corypheus dead, there’s not much reason too.”

“You are no child, Lethallan,” Abelas said. “Your life is your own to risk. There is no shame in spending all that you are in the service of a worthy cause.” He turned a little, allowed his gaze to trace the gentle curve of her cheek. Were this another time and another place, he might have mirrored the movements of his eyes with his fingertips. “For my part, I would merely regret our time together had come to such an abrupt close.” A faint smile brushed his lips. “As I have come to realize I shall enjoy sharing many more years in your company.”

A rosy color flushed her cheeks, burning on her skin. Her lips twitched and her eyes dropped. “Ma serannas,” she murmured. “I…” she trailed off, lashes fluttering. Then, luminous sky blue irises flicked up. He watched her slight smile widen, tug sideways. “I’m glad you feel that way.” Her hand tightened on his arm. “I do too.” She blinked. “I mean, I feel the same.”

Abelas inclined his head.

“You know,” her finger prodded his side, poking at the maille to reach the leather beneath his breastplate. “Maybe now it’s time to finally teach me the secrets of the Dirth’ena Enasalin.”

“Perhaps,” he replied. His smile twitched a little wider. Hesitantly, he rested a hand next to her cheek. “Once you have proven your courage.”

“Oh!” she laughed. Then, she winced. “Oh…” her head rolled until she brushed his hand, a pained grin pulled tight across her lips. “Stopping an ancient Tevinter Magister bent on the domination of all Thedas still not enough?”

“Not so long as you continue to be felled by Pride Demons.”

“Just the once!” She giggled. “Besides, they’re _so_ much larger than me. I should get double just for facing them!”

“When you recover,” he said. “We will see.”

Her eyes moved over him. Slightly narrowed, contemplative. Finally, she pursed her lips. “I’m holding you to that, Abelas.”

“I know, Lethallan.”

The smile returned, warming him as summer sunshine often did on a cloudless day. “Good.” She yawned, rolling over, one arm wrapped about his wrist and she hugged his gauntlet a little tighter. “I’m glad.”

“That,” he observed mildly, “cannot be comfortable.”

“It doesn’t come off though,” she murmured sleepily. “So, I’m keeping it.”

“Very well,” Abelas replied.

“You’ll be here when I wake up?”

“I am here,” he said. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story takes place before the others in the series and in the early stages of their friendship. I wanted to explore these two more because not only are they both fairly complex people but they're just so damn _cute_. It's an addiction, okay?
> 
> Abelas and Solas share so many similarities, but the few critical differences are where the different relationships really shine. It's so AU, but I don't care.
> 
> I hope you guys all enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it.


End file.
